


There'd Be Days Like This (Mama Told Me)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah has a bad day. Sherlock discovers nutmeg. Lestrade is late for dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There'd Be Days Like This (Mama Told Me)

John had kept her waiting while Sherlock had bounced around, throwing insults at DI Lestrade.

At least, that was the excuse he gave her when he hurried into the restaurant forty-five minutes late. She contemplated breaking up with him then and there, leaving him at the restaurant with the bill and the pitying stares of the waiters, but he had smiled at her, and her heart constricted – it was the smile that caught her every time.

She really should have known better.

As it was, when he dropped her off at her flat, several hours later, she allowed him to kiss her soundly. His hands warm against her face, her back, pulling her close to him. His lips were gentle, slightly chapped, and his kisses were assured, confident. She decided she rather liked the way he kissed.

“Well, erm,” he said, panting slightly as he drew back.

“Yes?” she replied.

“I should … probably go.”

“Do you want me to unfold the Lie-Low for you?” The disappointment flashed across his face.

 _I’m not ready yet, John, and I don’t know that I ever will be, because you’re you and I’m me, and I can’t compete with the past that drapes over you like a blanket, and I know I can’t compete with the fascination that Sherlock holds for you._

She settled for raising an eyebrow at him.

John blushed. Sarah catalogued it as Another Cute Thing about John Watson.

“I’ll… see you at the surgery tomorrow?”

Sarah smiled.

“It’s a date,” she said, leaning in to kiss him again.

This one lasted significantly longer and ended on her sofa.

 

* * *

As a result of the late night, she overslept and was awakened by the banging of pipes somewhere above her.

Grumbling, she threw her clothes for the day onto the bed and staggered to the bathroom  
for a shower.

Halfway through the shower, the water changed from pleasantly scalding to North Sea freezing.

Sarah remembered at that moment that the landlord was upgrading the plumbing that day.

Teeth chattering, she hurried into her clothing, tearing a hole in her new set of tights

On the way to the tube, she slipped in the mud on the kerb and went arse over elbow into the gutter.

At that moment, the heavens didn’t so much open as collapse onto her.

* * *

At work, she managed to repair the worst of the damage to her skirt, just in time to be kicked in the shins by Mrs Hawkins’ six-year-old son.

The receptionist called in sick, but not before Sarah discovered that she’d been double-booked for the entire morning.

The milk in the office refrigerator was off.

Her heel broke when she hurried out to grab a sandwich. (The ham was off as well.)

She dropped her mobile in the toilet.

When Sarah knocked the tray of syringes to the ground, she wanted to howl.

Fortunately, the four-year-old who was supposed to be on the receiving end of the jabs was doing enough for both of them.

That was the moment that John chose stuck his head through the door.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

Sarah pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her head ached, she was still cold from the morning, the four-year-old was screaming, and the mother was glaring at her.

“God, yes.”

* * *

John was a saint, she decided later that afternoon.

“…and the water in my building is off. I called the landlord and apparently the entire system is completely and utterly fucked,” she finished.

John reached out and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Would… erm, that is, I have a bath you could use,” he offered.

Sarah smiled.

“And then perhaps I could cook?” Hope was written across his face. "I promise that the door to the loo has a lock on it. Nobody would disturb you – I'd … I'll threaten Sherlock."

“I think that sounds lovely,” she said.

* * *

John even paid for the taxi to her place to pick up extra clothing and take her back to 221b.

“Risotto all right?” he asked.

Sarah didn’t care – visions of a hot bath danced in her head.

When they arrived at the flat, John scuttled around making sure the more disgusting pieces of human remains had been cleared out of the bathroom (only a finger in the toothmug) and running the bath.

With a relieved sigh, Sarah was finally able to sink into the water, a cup of tea (with fresh milk) on the floor beside her.

“I have to pick up some wine,” John called through the door. “I made Sherlock promise not bother you. He’s updating his website, so it should be quiet enough.”

Sarah laughed.

“It’s fine,” she called back. “I’m just thankful to be warm, finally.”

“Right then, I’ll be off.”

Sarah sank back and closed her eyes. There was no sound from the sitting room.

Bliss.

“What can kill you in the kitchen? Aside from food poisoning, rat poison, common household cleaners, knives, boiling water, electric shock, forks, glassware, spoons, and dishcloths?”

The door banged open and Sherlock strode in with his laptop, slammed the lid of the toilet down, and sat.

“Hmm? What contents of the spice rack are poisonous? Can cause hallucinations? My money’s on this.”

He fished in his pocket and brought out a small tin that rattled. Putting the laptop carefully on the sink, he shook the tin.

Sarah sat up quickly, yanking the towel from the rack and spreading it over herself as best as she could.

“Do you mind?” she inquired icily, struggling with folds of sopping towel.

Sherlock glanced at her, his gaze grazing over her partially exposed body.

“Nutmeg,” he said. “I think the victim was using nutmeg to alter his consciousness himself and it killed him. It's possible, you know. Nutmeg has been used for centuries as a hallucinogen. I'm going to try, but first, I need to find out how he did it.” From his pocket, he drew a spoon, as if conjuring a rabbit from a hat.

Sarah groaned.

Sherlock ignored her and pulled out a lighter.

"You are not serious!" Sarah protested. John would probably kill one of them (hopefully Sherlock) when he got home and found them like this.

Sherlock opened the tin to reveal the nuts and frowned.

"Powdered, surely."

“Don’t you have a tox screen?” she asked against her better judgment. "You could find out from that."

“Boring! Why bother? Plus, it wouldn't show anything _interesting_. I may have discovered a brand new way of killing somebody off!" He turned to her with a delighted grin.

"Right."

"And, well, Molly isn’t talking to me at the moment. I’ve been banned from St Bart’s morgue, apparently. Insensitivity to staff, is what they said. Lestrade could only get me preliminary results."

“What. A. Pity.”

“I wonder if it’s soluble, or… ah, no.” He set the spoon and lighter rig down and cast about the bathroom. “No, not in here, I wonder if Mrs Hudson – MRS HUDSON!” he cried, whirling away from the sink and banging out of the bathroom as quickly as he’d entered it.

Silence reigned.

Sarah pulled herself out of the tub and sniffed dubiously at the towel that hung on the door. It smelled of John’s shampoo.

 _Safe then._

Toweling herself off, she pulled on a robe and loosed her hair from its clip.

 _Nutmeg?_

 _No, Sarah Ann Sawyer, you are not getting involved in another one of Sherlock Holmes’ lunatic schemes._

 _I think I remember reading something about teenagers and the American press._

 _No. No. No. Put your clothes on and Go. Home._

 _There are chemical similarities…_

Sarah’s better judgment gave up its battle and retreated to a corner of her mind, grumbling at her.

She sat on the toilet lid and picked up the laptop.

Five enlightening minutes later, she had an answer.

Tightening the belt around her waist, she picked up the laptop and padded out of the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” she called. “It could very well have been nutmeg, but chances are there was something else, too. Perhaps Rohypnol, for example? A combination of the two would lead to that sort of reaction.”

* * *

Sarah heard John's return as she and Sherlock bent over the laptop and argued about pharmaceuticals.

He returned just in time to hear Sherlock’s exclamation of “Brilliant”! and see him give his date a smacking kiss on the lips.

“Am I interrupting?” John asked.

Sarah wrenched out of Sherlock’s grasp and practically flew to him.

“Never mind dinner, John,” she exclaimed, “I think we’re on to something here! Well, perhaps a bit - I’ll help with the risotto and Sherlock, you …” she waved her hand at him and Sherlock looked up.

“I love risotto,” he announced.

“You got him to eat on a case?” John asked, staring at her, disbelief all over his face.

“We’re done,” Sherlock said, pulling John’s mobile from his pocket. “Lestrade,” he barked into the phone, “come over. Rohypnol and nutmeg. And John’s cooking.”

Sarah pulled John into the kitchen, giggling. She rather liked the look of despair on his face.

"You too?" he asked resignedly. "I was gone for, what, twenty minutes?"

“I’ll explain it while we cook,” she said. “I borrowed your robe, too; I hope you don’t mind.”

John wrapped his arms around her.

“Not at all,” he said with a grin. "Although to see you…" He blushed.

Sarah pressed herself against him.

"Play your cards right," she whispered in his ear.

"Oh, will you get on with it and shag? You're putting me off!" exclaimed an irritated voice from the sitting room.

"Dinner…" Sarah objected.

"Damn the dinner," John growled, propelling them to the door.

The risotto was a little late, but so was Lestrade.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Thanks to the village that it takes to write fanfic: AnnieTalbot and Bluestocking79 for the beta, and Dickgloucester for the Brit-Pick.


End file.
